


You’re My Ache & I’m Awfully Fond

by rainonmyback



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional Constipation, Idiots in Love, Idk What season this would be but no cancer Wilson bc I cannot deal with cancer Wilson, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Thunderstorms, canon isn’t real nothing real bro, im writing this on 27+ hours of no sleep so just hear me out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25933231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback
Summary: Wilson impulsively has confessed to House. This is the aftermath. Yeah, something like that.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 200
Collections: dumbass doctors





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [You’re My Ache & I’m Awfully Fond](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26172376) by [ист из ап (magralhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magralhea/pseuds/%D0%B8%D1%81%D1%82%20%D0%B8%D0%B7%20%D0%B0%D0%BF)



> hi!! maybe I’ll make more for this?? who knows! I am so tired and feel so much for these two!!
> 
> sorry if it’s ooc! 
> 
> (Also you can’t pry Autistic House and BPD Wilson from my hands you CANT I will go to war for these headcanons)

“Oh, come on. You’re acting like I haven’t been obvious.”

House’s frown somehow deepens. No, Wilson confessing his love to him as he sat on the floor of their apartment was **not** expected. Uncomfortably so, because if it was, he’d have some sort of script ready. Something to say, something to tease him with or put those puppy dog eyes to rest.

 _Damn him,_ he supposes. Damn him for that little ache in his chest, the one he’s desperate to pull the plug on.

Wilson laughs, not in a happy way, but also not miserably. He just sounds tired. Wilson is an expert at making exhaustion look like an art.

“It’s like a fucking sore thumb. Even Cuddy’s asked,” he goes on, hand now rubbing temple.

He doesn’t even need to see House’s reaction to that, not missing a beat.

“A while back. We had a talk, dedicated to you. You’d love it. Asshole.” He muttered that last part. He can feel a headache coming on.

House took a glance out the window. The sky looked so dead, like it was about to flood this entire world, just let it all out. He didn’t know what to make of anything in this moment. He looked back down at the disheveled man.

The bright, charming oncologist. The man with a couple of ex wives, which House always deep down in the corner of his brain could never understand. Wilson’s handsome, gorgeous even, and needy. Girls love that. More-so, women who love doctors love that. People love needy, especially paired with pretty brown eyes. A man who just looks perfect to reach out and touch. One whose smile lines adorn him. One who makes the ache, forges it from scratch. Wilson is a dream, kind of.

And the ache is tickling him now, and he wishes he could just stuff Vicodin down his soul. If that’s even a thing... _God, how much time has passed anyways?_

“I’ve never had any inklings. Until now. Well, it’s not an inkling, really. I just know now.” House says, slowly twirling his cane, pretending to stare at it. He’s really looking at Wilson’s locks. Washed, clean, very soft.

Probably.

“Great.” Wilson bites into the air.

“So, do you want a beer?”

That makes him look up with big dumb expression. It’s as if someone just exploded the Sun. Warm brown peaking through big pretty lashes, lips slightly parted. Now that’s what House fixates on.

“What? That— _That’s_ your response?”

“And you would like my response to be...?”

His eyes narrow, seeming to be searching for the words.

“I don’t know! Grill me, I guess! Burn me alive, roast me, give me your expert diagnosis” he shouts, dramatics and all, “that’s kind of what I expected.”

“So, you told me you’re in love with me just to get a sweet burn? God, we really do need to get you a hobby. Ever thought of crocheting?” He’s starting to make his way to the kitchen now. Like a loyal dog, Wilson gets up to follow, making an annoyed noise.

“I cannot believe you! I just fucking can’t, House!” Wilson exclaims, and House can solemnly swear under oath that he can see red on the other man’s cheeks. “Maybe—Maybe I just can’t believe myself. It’s way too late to take this all back, right?”

House fetched two beers from the fridge, handing one to Wilson, who immediately cracks it open to consume.

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

“ _Fuck off._ ”

There’s a pause. Wilson’s eyebrows furrow.

“You had no idea.”

“I had no idea.”

“None.”

“Zilch. Zip. Nada,” He knows he sounds like he’s messing with him.

The puppy eyes intensify to dangerous levels. _Calm down, Marley._

“Really, I didn’t.” House says, cracking opening his drink. Wilson takes a few big gulps of his own. _Liquid courage my ass, he looks like a little lamb._

“Sucks that I ruined it, I guess, huh.”

“No.”

Wilson scoffs, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

The oncologist is going back into his beer for more. They can both hear the storm outside finally pouring down. House makes a decision.

“Well, because it’s mutual.”

That’s when Wilson chokes on the alcohol fighting down his throat.


	2. The Aftermath’s Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> house & Wilson finally figure out their constipatef love bullshit. beautiful dumbasses in love <3 they’re so stupid, god bless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swifter Sweeper pls don’t sue me <3

House doesn’t really remember when they both decided to move this conversation to the couch, but there they were. Wilson somehow looks homicidal and gentle all at once. _A pissed off teddy bear._

“You said you love me too,” it shakes out of him, breathless, “you love me.”

House’s face didn’t mean to twitch in the way it did. He hoped Wilson didn’t notice it. He probably did, though. _Bastard loves to pounce on every emotion he can scope out._

 _“_ Well, yeah.” House lets the words roll out, nice and slow. 

“ _Yeah?_ ”

House can feel his lips, itching to say something. He decided to twirl his cane around instead, and then takes a glance at the remote.

“You think reruns of General Hospital would be running right now?” He asks, picking it up and pressing the on button.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Wilson leans over, attempting to snatch the remote from him but failing, “we need to talk about this!”

House doesn’t take his eyes off of the television, flipping through channels, “There you go again with the needs.”

“We just professed our love for each other, House!” And he’s sure Wilson meant that to sound like a yell, but it came out more like a whine.

That shouldn’t make him feel lighter, he thinks. 

“No, _you_ professed. I just stated.” House replies, finally finding General Hospital. _God saves._

“Look—professed, stated, _whatever_. I think we need to have this conversation.”

“I think we are. And, look,” House takes a pause, counting to three from his fingers, “aw, I guess time’s up. Bummer, babe.” 

He swears he didn’t mean for that word to slip out. Vocally, anyways. Wilson doesn’t seem to have had a reaction to it, which is good, because the last thing House wants to do right now is move the discussion over to the array of pet names he has stored for him in his constant internal line of thought. 

He’s tries to focus on the show. Well, focus on the faces, at least. The opening dialogues are usually just filled with mindless medical buzzword garbage.   
_Damn, Clooney looks good. Though, he’s no Wilson, of course._

Clooney’s Hollywood handsome, Wilson’s next door neighbor handsome. Very different, but the latter has better qualities overall, more room to explore. More interesting. Hollywood beauty is boring and dies out, but smart, soft cuteness lasts forever.

Wilson sits there, silenced by House’s seemingly stolen attention. 

“You are _such_ an asshole.” 

“And yet you still love me.” 

That was met with silence. For a moment, Wilson turned his attention to the show. Some stupid Swifter Sweeper commercial was on.

“You know we should talk about this, right?” 

House taps the remote onto his leg—the good one, of course—before abruptly shutting off the TV. He turns to face Wilson.

“Fine- _uh_. Let’s talk, dearest.”

Pet name aside, Wilson looks almost satisfied. Almost. There’s this funny little glimmer in his eyes, House swears it.

“How long has it been for you?” Wilson asks. It’s a simple question, plainly set out for him. Should be easy, shouldn’t make his pulse’s beat a little louder inside. 

He doesn’t know what to say, really. Can he even pinpoint that? Well, if he had to guess, maybe...

“I can’t remember when I started loving you,” Wilson interrupts House’s thought process, “anytime I try to trace back, all I get are blanks. I can’t remember... _not_ loving you,” he goes on, now looking down at his hands, playing with them, “Guess I always have. I don’t know.” 

House stares, watching Wilson’s right hand soothe the left, rubbing little circles onto his thumb. He could feel his face twice again.

“Feelings are weird.” House mumbles.

The soothing halts for a brief moment.

“Yeah.”

Thunder can be heard crunching in the distance as a silence fills the apartment. It feels like it goes on longer than it actually does, most likely. House’s thoughts have gone from solid, to liquid, to solid again, to prickly, and now, without his consent, soft. _So_ soft. He decides to say something.

“One time when we were in my office, I stole your lunch from your lap,” House starts off. 

“One time. As in, everyday?” 

House wants to roll his eyes, but chooses not to, continuing. 

“I had caught something though. You had a chicken parmesan sandwich.” House stated, with Wilson looking lost, to say the least, “you had that three days before that. And, when I snatched that sandwich, I remember specifically telling you that it tasted good. That I really, _really_ liked it.” 

“Have you ever considered that maybe I just made another chicken parmesan sandwich because I wanted to eat one? Because you, y’know, _robbed me of that?_ ” 

“Could’ve just had one for dinner, away from my sticky fingers. You did it because I liked it. Because you care about me. You wanted me to take that sandwich and _enjoy_ it.” 

Wilson, shaking his head, makes some kind of bizarre chuckle. It doesn’t sound like he meant to make that noise. 

“And your point is?”

Now here comes the harder part. _Slow and steady._

“When I started thinking about that—you caring about me, caring _for_ me—I started realizing how much I liked that. How much I wanted that, how much I _needed_ that: For you to care about me,” House can feel his heartbeat, loud and oddly strong, “And I started thinking...about how I care about you too. And how _much_ I do. It’s fucking scary, honestly.” he says that last part in a half-whisper, feeling a tad bit lighter. He can’t tell if that’s good or bad.

It’s Wilson’s turn to stare, and _oh boy_ , does he do it well—saucer eyes and mouth agape, the works. If you weren’t there for all of that, you’d think House had just told Wilson that he was his Father. 

“That isn’t when I started...loving you. That moment’s probably way, _way_ farther back. But, it’s a good realization I had. Lots of internal reflection, some turmoil, weird fuzziness. Good stuff.” he says, nodding along with his words. His body feels hot, tighter. And yet, calmer, as if he had loosened a knot he didn’t know was there. 

The lightness grows, stemming from his stomach, and spreading all the way down to his toes. He decides it’s good. Maybe, in these cases, admitting to the wanting, to the needing, is good. _Go figure._

Wilson’s hands, in a rather swift motion, gently cup House’s face, pulling him into a kiss. And it’s _soft_. Soft and sweet and warm and so utterly _Wilson_. That’s all his mind says. _Wilson, Wilson, Wilson, Wilson..._

Nine—almost ten!—Wilson’s later, the oncologist pulls back. His hands are still cupping his face, now soothing House’s skin with his thumbs, lightly rubbing. It’s perfect, one of the best sensations known to mankind, House concludes. 

Wilson has a big, goofy grin on his face, blush obvious on his, well, everywhere. Ears, nose, cheeks, forehead—and it suits him. Makes him look even more like Wilson. Unbeknownst to House, he’s returning the grin. 

“Well, Jimmy, I’m gonna assume no more General Hospital for tonight?”

Wilson nods, a full laugh coming out of him, like sunlight into a hospital room window. Outside, the storm has settled down into a light drizzle.


End file.
